


Blood Ties

by Ophiel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mage-Templar War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:18:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7918426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophiel/pseuds/Ophiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mage-Templar war cuts a little close to home for Garan Trevelyan, newly christened Herald of Andraste, when his sister turns up in Haven, determined to help whether her big brother wants her there or not. </p><p>Garan Trevelyan belongs to <a href="http://tamarandom.deviantart.com/">Tamarandom</a>. This is a fic/pic collaboration between us! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>   
> Art by Tamarandom 

A gasp cut through the silence of the cottage, startled, frightened, full of fear. Over the crackle of the fire in the hearth came heavy, laden breathing. These noises did little to disrupt the predawn sounds of Haven - the ringing of soldiers’ blades as they went through their drills as Cullen barked his orders, the sounds of the cookhouse in the distance, the lilting song of the robins and, above all, like a claw scratching down the back of the mind, the dull, distant roar of the Breach. 

Garan Trevelyan looked up as his heart wound down from a terrified staccato. The eyes of the vision at the Breach was so real, the pull of the mark on his hand was palpable. It had been little over a week that the Breach had been closed, but not sealed. With sweat casting a fine sheen on his body despite the cold, he looked down at his left hand. The mark was still. It was comforting to know that his training as a mage in Ostwick now allowed him to deal with this wretched thing. Now if only he could remember how he got it. 

Cullen’s voice cut through the air, berating a recruit for dropping his sword. With Garan’s cottage separated from the training grounds by a mere fence, he could often hear Cullen speaking. It was a pleasant sort of torture. He smiled faintly and pushed back the covers, swinging his legs out of bed. The mark was a worry for another day, provided it behaved. Right now, he had to ready for the day. He had staff practice with an attractive Templar, after all.

Once he had changed and completed his morning ritual of shaving and setting his hair (Thank you, Cullen, for the beeswax), he settled down to his serving of breakfast and his requisite morning task. Chewing on the slice of bread and sausage he was given, Garan pulled a quill and parchment towards him and began to write. 

 

_ Dear Mother, _

_ Here’s hoping the weather finds you well. With any luck, the last letter I sent has arrived, and you will now know that I am alive. The week has progressed here in Haven. We now call ourselves the Inquisition, formed under the writ of the late Divine, Maker keep her soul. It is a hollow title now, for we have little more than the people of the village and a smattering of soldiers here and there. Maker willing, we will be able to make a difference - or at least, not die. We’ve yet to decide what we can actually do, though.  _

_ Regardless, I hope to see you soon, once this is over. There are no more Circles, and it would be nice to visit you and Father again.  _

_ Your loving son, _

_ Garan. _

 

Garan folded the parchment to send it later. After which, he pulled on the soft leather robes he had been given to wear. The coat could be buttoned closed and also opened to adapt to the heat and the boots were fur-lined and comfortable. He adjusted the scarf at his neck. It was cold. He wondered if it might be a good idea to incorporate some fur into his attire… 

Musing on this, he picked up his staff from where it leaned against the wall, and set it into its clasp on his coat. Then he stepped out into the snow, his boots crunching the fresh snow that shrouded the village of Haven. 

It occurred to Garan that people with honest purpose and livelihoods tended to be up really early in the day. People with honest purpose and livelihoods would basically be anyone who wasn’t a mage or noble - basically anyone who was nothing like him. Well, besides them were the handful of Templars who lived in Haven. They were up too, and as he stepped through the gates, he could see the Templars among the recruits, training and guiding them. Cullen watched over the training with his arms crossed, his face as stern as ever. Garan found his feet stilling as he watched from the gate. His eyes lingered on Cullen’s face. Odd that the man was a templar, supposedly in the very centre of the start of the Mage-Templar war. Now here he was, a colleague to Garan. Garan scratched a cheek. It had been a strange few weeks, and he had no idea what fur could do to the silhouette of a man - fur not being a regular part of the Templar armor, after all. It was so… Fereldan. 

Focus, he told himself. He had work to do. Let’s not forget what he was supposed to do - train so that he did not die. Cullen was going to teach him how to use a staff in combat. Garan continued to walk, sniggering to himself. Staff. He’d let Cullen handle his staff any day - Maker he was such a juvenile! He was grinning when he approached Cullen, whose expression did not change from his perpetual critical scowl as he watched the recruits. 

“Herald,” Cullen greeted, when Garan stepped up to him. 

“Garan, please,” he replied. “Ready for our staff training?” Do not waggle your eyebrows at attractive people. 

“Garan,” Cullen said, unfolding his arms and Garan felt those honeyed eyes travel to his dark orange hair and lingering on his green eyes. He forced down the rising heat in his cheeks.  

Garan cleared his throat. “You’re being exceptionally serious,” he said, smoothing down his hair. 

“Have you a sibling?” Cullen suddenly asked. 

Garan blinked. “Asking after my family, Cullen? Already?”

Cullen blushed and Garan forced himself not to grin at the pink tinge in the man’s cheeks, accentuated by the light of the rising sun. “That- That’s not it,” Cullen muttered. “Perhaps you should come with me. It will be easier to show you. This way, please.”

Cullen started towards the gate, and as Garan fell into step beside him, he saw another Inquisition soldier step forward to take over the training. The man had tattoos on his face. They never had people like this in Ostwick’s Circle. “Where are we going?” Garan asked then as he and Cullen walked through the gate.

“To the Chantry,” Cullen replied, glancing at him. “The jails, specifically.”

Garan looked up immediately, seeing the sunlight staining the highest tips of the Chantry’s roof. “Again? Why?”

“I would like you to verify something,” Cullen replied. “I would prefer not to talk about it beforehand.”

“Well, the last time a Templar dragged me off to the jails, it was not a pleasant experience.”

Cullen smiled at him a little ruefully. “I am not a Templar any longer.” He pushed open the Chantry doors, which creaked heavily in the cold. “Also, I am not exactly dragging you, precisely.”

Garan stepped into the Chantry and Cullen shut the door behind him. Not a Templar any longer, but certainly Templar enough. It was under Cullen and Meredith’s strict rule that the Mages of Kirkwall were forced to rise against the oppression. It was hard to imagine Cullen - all adorably stern yet level-headed, the blushing-cheeked and mumbling Cullen - was the one who oppressed Mages to their breaking point. 

Cullen unlocked the door to the cells, the lock echoing in the empty chantry hall as it turned. When Garan stepped through, he startled as the door was shut once again. Cullen glanced at him and hesitated. Then he sighed and locked the door. “It is a security precaution,” Cullen explained. Was that resignation in his voice, Garan wondered. Then Cullen placed the keys in his hand. “If you don’t mind,” Cullen said. “I may need my hands.”

Garan closed his hands around the keys with some relief, which vanished when Cullen loosened the sword in its scabbard at his side. Cullen led the way down the dank hallway. Garan shook the uneasy feeling and followed. 

The light from the sconces and round candle holders hanging from the ceiling was sputtering at best, merely casting deeper shadows in the corners. The air smelled of straw and piss, a smell that Garan found distressingly familiar. It wasn’t long ago that he had awoken here to find the world and the sky torn apart, and his hand marked with bizarre magic the likes of which he had never seen. Two guards straightened and saluted when Cullen approached a dark cell at the end of the hallway where two torches guttered weakly in the damp. 

“The soldiers intercepted an intruder the night before,” Cullen reported, his hand near his sword. Garan saw a shadow move within the cell. There was a weary sigh from beyond the bars. “Perhaps you could identify her.”

“What?” Garan blinked. 

“Bring a torch over,” Cullen ordered one of the soldiers.

“He is fine with fire spells, Knight Commander Cullen,” a woman’s voice sounded, young and resonant, yet slightly hoarse. “You can light the area, can’t you, Garan?” There was almost a challenge in that tone. 

Garan frowned as he felt icy cold recognition run down his spine. He pressed the keys back to Cullen and raised his hand, letting the fire flow, fueled by his will. An orange glow filled the area, burning steady despite the damp air. The light fell through the bars, illuminating the face beyond. She had dark hair, wavy curls cut short for neatness, only for them to rebelliously frame her face, sticking up at odd angles. Her blue eyes were hard, glinting like shards of frost in the firelight from Garan’s hand. She glared at him, her arms crossed across her chest, a sheepskin wrapped over her shoulders and buckled with a brass clasp. 

Garan stared at her, both of them locked in a frozen moment. 

“Do you know her?” Cullen spoke up then, breaking the silence. 

She set her hands on her hips, her booted foot tapping on the cold floor. Garan drew a deep breath.

“Let’s speak outside, Commander,” Garan replied evenly, resisting the urge to swear at her. 

The bars shook furiously, echoing like thunder. “Garan!” she shouted, a warning in her voice as she furiously shook the bars. 

Garan turned from the cell and strode away, his face hot with an unexpected heat. “Knight Commander!” she pleaded. “Please! You know me!” 

“I am not a Knight Commander any longer, Ser Knight,” Cullen replied. Garan looked over his shoulder as he hesitated at the threshold. Now that he saw her, her eyes were luminous in the dark. “I no longer count myself among their number. Do you?” Cullen asked. 

She paused, her eyes uncertain as she worried her lip. She looked at Garan and her hands fell from the bars. “I don’t know, Kni-- I mean, Cullen. Commander,” she said and her hands balled into fists. “Am I even wanted here?”

Garan did not rise to that. “Outside, Commander,” he said again and walked away. He could hear her breath hissing between her teeth, the way it always did before she lost her temper. A sound from years and years ago, Garan realised, back when dolls and wooden toys were more a part of their lives than swords or staves. Cullen followed him without a word. To her credit, they didn’t hear her furious growls and kicking on the walls till they were nearly at the door to the Chantry. 

Cullen locked the door behind him, cutting her screaming off. Garan was seething, staring ahead into the empty chantry as his bit his thumbnail in thought. Cullen pocketed the keys. “Care to elaborate?”

“No,” Garan said immediately. Then he caught Cullen’s look, that look as if he were a child. Garan frowned and took his thumb out of his mouth. “Is it possible to send her packing?”

“I do not think she would go willingly,” Cullen replied. 

“Maybe bundle her up? Throw her across the back of a horse?” Garan knew he was being stupid, but seeing her here had shocked him.

Cullen frowned slightly. “I would prefer not to have to do that,” he said. “She came here looking for you. I know who she says she is but I wanted to hear it from you. Although, seeing your reaction now, I don’t think you need to say more.”

Garan’s mouth opened as he gaped. “You know her?” he asked incredulously. 

“We train together across the Marches,” Cullen shrugged. He seemed to catch himself. “We used to train together, I mean. I recognize her name and her face.”

“Then why did you need me to--” Garan began. He held up his hands. “No, wait, let me guess. Security? You wanted to confirm our relationship? That makes sense. I think you can also understand why I am absolutely against her presence here.”

Cullen chuckled. “You reacted as I would have, had my own sister appeared here in Haven,” he said. 

Garan blinked. “You have a sister?”

“Two, neither of whom I want to see riding up to Haven’s gates asking to speak to me.”

Garan sighed heavily as he turned away, running his hand through his hair. 

Cullen looked at the locked door to the cells, his eyes distant for a moment. “Did she really ride up here in the middle of the night?” Garan asked then, and Cullen turned away from the door. “With nothing?”

“Oh, no, her belongings are safe.”

“What did she bring with her?”

“Templar armor and a sword.”

Garan sighed heavily. “But of course.” He smiled then. “Same old tantrum thrower, though. Well, it doesn’t matter, it’s not like we have to decide that now. Just leave her for a while.”

“In the cells? Really?”

“For now,” Garan replied. “We’ll question her later or something. Perhaps you can convince her to leave.” 

“Me?” Cullen blinked. 

“You’re her Knight Commander.”

“No, I was  _ a _ Knight Commander. One of many. She does not report to me-”

“Yes, she does, or might. Perhaps you could order her to leave. In the name of Andraste, maybe.”

Cullen’s expression turned incredulous. “Why don’t you order her to leave? You’re Herald and her older brother.”

“Yes, which is probably why she won’t listen to me,” Garan rolled his eyes. “Besides, I’ll bet all the ladies would do anything you say if you smolder at them.” Cullen glared at him. “Exactly like that, Commander,” Garan grinned. 

Cullen sighed. “I would prefer not to get involved, Herald. This is clearly a family issue. And if she is willing to serve the Inquisition, then--”

“She’s going home,” Garan said firmly. “I’m not having my little sister in the middle of all these demons.”

“She’s a Templar, Garan! She’s trained to fight demons. You know this.”

Garan groaned. Damn Cullen and his… reasonableness. Still, there was the possibility that she would leave of her own free will. That would be the best and simplest outcome. He did not want her here where it was dangerous. What was she even doing here? She was supposed to be in Ostwick, not in the middle of demon-filled madness. Still, as long as she stayed safe in the cells, she was fine. That was a problem for later. He grinned at Cullen. “Anyway, shall we get back to training, Commander? You were going to show me how to defend with a staff? Also, there is going to be a War Council later in the day, is there not?”

Cullen met his eyes. He glanced at the door to the cells. “As you wish, Herald,” he said. “Until then, I’ll send someone down with food for Ser Trevelyan.”

Garan chuckled. “Just call her Evie,” he said over his shoulder as he opened the doors of the Chantry, letting light pour into the hall. “Everyone else does.”

 

+++++

 

Time in the cell was difficult to determine. Evie was seething and furious at the way Garan was behaving. She had growled and kicked the wall, at least when they were out of sight. That had made her feel better. Sort of. She paced her cell until her anger started to diffuse. The headache, however, did not. Neither did the trembling in her limbs fade. She should have stolen more lyrium before she left to come here. Did he even want her here? Of course not. She was as inconvenient as always, wasn’t she? That man had no sense of-- of  _ gratitude! _ After everything she had done for him! 

She bit her thumbnail in thought as her hand quivered. Could she get out? She longed to give him a piece of her mind, as if he would listen. He never did. He knew everything, didn’t he? Too clever by half, so sharp he cuts himself.

She frowned. Then what? 

After she yelled at him, what then?

Her pacing stilled as her expression grew troubled. After hearing that there were survivors in the Conclave, she had fled with whatever she had on her at the time. That was a week ago. She swallowed the bubble of despair that arose at the memory of the news that the Conclave had been destroyed. She had wept for Garan, thinking him dead. She thought all had died. She had come to claim his body and bring him home, if she could. 

She was not expecting… all this. This  _ Inquisition _ . She was not expecting Garan back from the dead, apparently saved by Andraste herself. 

She heard the lock turning from the far end of the hallway and the two guards straightened in their stance. She lowered her hand from her mouth and stormed to the bars. “Garan!” she shouted. 

“Not quite,” a voice returned, lilting with that typical Starkhaven brogue. She saw the figure approaching, carrying a tray. Her eyes widened in recognition. 

She chuckled then and lowered her hands, trying to ignore the shaking coming from them. “Rylen,” she smiled, eyeing him as he approached with tray in hand, donned in the Inquisition uniform. “New uniform, Knight-Captain?”

“It’s just Captain, now,” Rylen said. He nodded to one of the soldiers, who stepped forward to unlock her cell. 

“It’s hard to keep abreast of everyone’s new titles from in here,” she said, stepping away from the bars as Rylen stepped in. “Commander, Captain, Herald.” Evie looked down at the tray as a glimmer of blue caught her eye. She swallowed, her eyes suddenly hungry. 

Rylen handed her the tray, and she took it eagerly, sitting down on the pile of straw that served as her bed. She pushed the bread and gruel aside, reaching out for the blue. 

“How long has it been since your last dose?” Rylen asked as he watched her. 

She held up a finger at him to wait and unstoppered the philter. She drank greedily, the blue glow fading from beyond her closed eyelids. She felt the fire within her as the lyrium slid down her throat. Her tongue began to burn as if on fire, but that was fine. She exhaled with relief. “Maker’s breath,” she sighed, the heat swelling inside her. Soon it would warm her to her fingertips. Soon she would be able to think straight. 

“That’s not how the prayer is supposed to go,” Rylen chuckled. 

She looked up at Rylen with a wry smile as she set the empty philter down. “My last dose was a week or so ago,” she replied. “I think the Maker will understand if I skipped the formalities.”

Rylen smiled and squatted down before her as she reached out for the bread on the tray and began to wolf it down. “Is it still Knight-Lieutenant Trevelyan, now?” he asked.

Tactful as always, Evie noted. But Knight Captain Rylen did have a reputation for being far more urbane than the likes of Knight Commander Cullen. “Probably not,” she said, biting into the bread. “I’m not sure. I might be court martialed if I return to Knight Captain Denham. Or worse, demoted.”

“Denham?” Rylen asked curiously. “What’s he doing?”

“Besides being his charming self?” Evie asked as she chewed, picking up the bowl of gruel. “Moving a contingent of us to Therinfal Redoubt. Or he was, before I abandoned them.” Even now, that word tasted bitter in her mouth. 

Rylen frowned. “Why?”

Evie looked up at him, taking her time to sip gruel from the lip of the bowl. She swallowed and licked her lips. “Why did I leave or why is he marching the Ostwick contingent?”

“Both.”

“I left to bring my brother’s body home. Lo and behold, that won’t be necessary.” She sipped her gruel again. “As for Denham, he’s taken nearly every able-bodied Templar left behind in Ostwick to Therinfal,” she went on. “I was not the only one who wanted to come here. Have others made it here?”

“From Kinloch, yes. But not Ostwick.”

Evie hummed and sipped her gruel. 

Rylen watched her. He then gently but firmly held her wrist, halting her hand as she lifted the bowl to her lips once more. “You must be tired,” Rylen said. “Did Denham not let you take anything with you at all? You look kitted out for a forced march.”

Evelyn looked up at him, the tattoos stark on his skin in the firelight. “I would like to speak with my brother,” she said evenly. “And I will say no more of the Templars or Denham until I do.”

Rylen sighed. “I think the Herald of Andraste might be more comfortable if you weren’t here,” he admitted. “It isn’t safe here.”

“Is it safe anywhere?” Evie asked. “Demons are pouring out of the sky and the countryside is in chaos. This isn’t the Circle. The Herald of Andraste cannot simply turn the corner and pretend he does not see his inconvenient sister.” Firmly but gently, she pried Rylen’s hand from her wrist. “I must speak with him. After that is done, I will divulge what I know about Denham’s movement.”

“That’s your offer?”

Evie shrugged. “If he still thinks the Templars are a threat not to be trusted, yes. He needs to know what I have to say.” She drained the bowl of gruel and sighed happily, feeling full at last. She realized Rylen was chuckling. “Something funny?” she asked. 

“Not at all, Ser Knight,” Rylen said smoothly. “I’m just wondering how the Herald is going to take that bit of news.”

“Well, he can take it like a man,” she snapped heatedly. “Herald of Andraste or no, he’s still my brother and if he keeps me in this cell, Maker help me, I’ll have  _ words _ to say to him!” She punched her fist into her palm.

Rylen laughed even more.

“Rylen!”

“Sorry,” he said placatingly as he stood up. “No, it’s just--”

“Just what?”

Rylen stopped, feeling the chill in the air. Evie was smiling, but it was the sort of smile one saw emerging from the grass, all scaly and cold. He cleared his throat. “Nothing, pardon me, I was thinking of something else,” he said. 

“That’s what I thought.” Evie stood up and dusted the seat of her breeches. 

“Perhaps it’s best we shift you to different quarters now,” said Rylen then. Evie stared at him. Rylen smiled. “Commander’s orders.” 

 

++++

 

Garan’s letter was edited before it was sent off pinned to the leg of a bird. 

 

_ Dear Mother, _

_ Here’s hoping the weather finds you well. With any luck, the last letter I sent has arrived, and you will now know that I am alive. The week has progressed here in Haven. We now call ourselves the Inquisition, formed under the writ of the late Divine, Maker keep her soul. It is a hollow title now, for we have little more than the people of the village and a smattering of soldiers here and there. Maker willing, we will be able to make a difference - or at least, not die. We’ve yet to decide what we can actually do, though.  _

_ Regardless, I hope to see you soon, once this is over. There are no more Circles, and it would be nice to visit you and Father again.  _

_ Your loving son, _

_ Garan. _

_ P.S. Your dear daughter has turned up at Haven. I am extremely unhappy with this. Once I get her safely home, please tell her off accordingly. Thank you. Lots of love from us both.  _

 


	2. Fireside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reconciliation and difficult confessions by the fireside. 
> 
> Garan Trevelyan belongs to [Tamarandom](http://tamarandom.deviantart.com/). This is a fic/pic collaboration between us! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> Art by Tamarandom 

Garan shut the door to his cottage as fresh snow fell around him, hanging in the air and obscuring the mountains in the distance. It was pretty cold. He would have to leave in the morning for the Hinterlands to meet some Mother, which was probably an exercise in futility in itself. Garan adjusted the scarf he wore as his feet moved unbidden. He only had one night to send Evie off. Maybe he could convince her with minimal yelling. The fires were burning in Haven. Tiny windows from the handful of cottages were glittering apertures of light against the snow, that was forever new and brilliant. With the new snow, Haven was hardly ever really dark. Overhead, the Breach spun its dance in the sky, swirling the snow clouds like tea stirred in a cup. Garan glanced at the view, then sighed as he continued on his way. 

He frowned as he trudged through Haven with barely a hello to Varric, who was sitting by the fire with his head bent over a board across his knees, quill scratching away. It wasn’t as if he did not like Evie. Far from it. He just never understood her. Then she became a Templar, and that made everything harder. It did you no favours to be friendly to Templars in the Circle, even if it was your own sister. He opened the doors to the silent Chantry and headed down to the cells with his keys. It was freezing even in here. He hoped she wasn’t cold. 

A moment later, the Chantry doors thundered open as he burst through them into the falling snow outside, his footsteps falling far more urgently now. He half-ran through the village, a frown on his face and his heart beating far more urgently than he anticipated or understood. He pushed open the gates of Haven. The troop’s barrack tents were silent now as they had taken to their beds. Cullen was outside his tent, sitting on a wooden crate beside a fire pit. A kettle hung over the flames, as he held a cup of something steaming, while reading a book held in one hand. 

“Cullen!” Garan called urgently, striding up to him. 

Cullen looked up. “Herald,” he said. “I need to speak to you.”

“Where’s Evie?” Garan snapped. “Is she gone?” 

Cullen glanced aside, setting the book on the crate beside him. “Not really,” he said. Garan frowned. Cullen worked like an open book sometimes. 

“How is she ‘not really’ gone?” Garan asked. “She’s not in the cells.”

Cullen sighed. He nudged a crate to Garan. “Please, sit,” he said. 

Garan glared at him for a moment, then sat down. “Right, so, you said you’d keep her there, didn’t you? Someone to bring food along?”

“I changed my mind,” Cullen replied evenly. “I had no reason to keep her in the cells. She had done nothing wrong.”

“Yes, but now she’s gone!” 

Cullen tilted his head thoughtfully. “Does that concern you?”

“Yes!” Garan froze, hearing the tone of his voice. He cleared his throat. “I mean, yes. I want to know-- some things.”

Cullen smiled slightly, that little smirk moving his scar in the firelight. Garan wished he wouldn’t. Tingles in his tummy distracted him. Cullen glanced over Garan’s shoulder then. “Perhaps you could ask her?” Cullen suggested. 

Garan heard the crunching of new snow behind him too late. He turned to look over his shoulder and the world erupted in sparks of light in his eyes and flaring pain from his jaw. He reeled back, catching himself before the looked up the face of his sister.

Evie wasn’t all that tall, and with her standing over him, Garan could see her eyes liquid and blue in the firelight. She snarled, raising her fist again. “Wait!” Garan cried, holding his hand out. But Cullen was suddenly there, catching her wrist and pulling her back with his arm around her. “None of this! We agreed!” Cullen growled at Evie. Evie said nothing, staring down at Cullen’s arm around her body. Cullen and Garan’s eyes lowered too and saw where Cullen was holding her. “Maker I am so sorry!” Cullen sputtered, pulling his hand from around her chest as if she were made of hot coals. 

Evie drew a deep breath, her cheeks as red as Cullen’s. “That’s fine, Commander,” she said through grit teeth as she avoided looking at him. “I’m short, you’re not. You can’t help where you can grab.”

Garan, holding his jaw, gaped at Cullen. “Did you just grab my sister’s--”

“I-It was an accident!” Cullen cried, his cheeks burning. 

“Don’t you change the subject!” Evie snarled at Garan. She grabbed his collar and Garan was a little surprised by the force in her pull. “You bloody idiot!” her growl came. “I thought you were dead!”

Garan sat helplessly as she locked his eyes with hers, and he could see the anger that burned in her. She was enraged and he just wanted to melt into the snow, if possible. “Yes but I’m not dead?” he managed. 

“I cried for you!” she wept, shaking him by the collar. “Because it was my fault!”

Garan stared at her hot tears pouring from her blue eyes onto the snow. “It was my fault! I-- I was the one who put your name up as an aide for Senior Enchanter Theobold. I vouched for you - I sent you here after your stupid fight at the Circle!” She stopped shaking him, but Garan was reeling more from her words than anything else. The fight in Ostwick’s Circle was a foolish one, he knew. Rumours about his proficiency with magic being attributed to blood magic had pushed Garan’s patience. Confronting the one who started the rumours had been the last straw. Instead of magic, Garan had resorted to satisfaction of his fists. The punch up did not last long before the man threw a spell, scarring Garan’s face. By the time the Templars arrived to break it up, the man had to be sent to the infirmary with a shattered jaw and Garan to the cells under the Tower at the mercy of the Templars. 

He had always wondered how he managed to get out and be sent to the Conclave as an aide after that fiasco. “You?” he breathed, the enormity of what she was saying sinking in.

“Yes!” she cried as she gave him a sharp shake. “I wanted to save you but you! I thought I killed you! I thought I sent you to your death! I-I thought-- I thought--” Her shoulders began to quiver as the sobs raked through her, her grip on his collar loosening. 

Then Garan’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her to sit on the crate and holding her as she cried. She stiffened in his arms as the sobs tore through her. “I’m sorry,” Garan breathed, his heart heavy. He felt Evie’s fists clenching against his chest. She pushed away from him and glared at him. Then she held both of his cheeks in her palms. “Admit you’re an idiot,” she snapped. 

“Seriously?” Garan groaned. 

“Say it!” 

Garan sighed heavily. “I’m an idiot,” he droned. 

Evie let him go and wiped the tears from her eyes immediately. She sniffled as she sat on the crate next to Garan, her chest heaving as she calmed herself down. Then she looked up when a linen handkerchief was held out to her. She glanced up at Cullen and took the handkerchief from his fingers, her cheeks tinged as she mumbled her thanks. 

Cullen sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Should I leave you two alone?” he asked. 

“No,” Evelyn replied, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief. “It’s alright, Commander. We’ve probably woken up half the camp with our noise and everyone’s listening in, I’m sure.”

There was a rather guilty silence that suddenly hung over the soldiers’ tents. 

“You’re not wrong there,” Cullen sighed. 

“Good thing they can only hear us and not see us, eh, Commander? Or they might have seen you… mishandle things...” Garan muttered. Cullen shot him a glare even as Garan smiled a little impudently. Then Evie punched him in the arm. “Ow.”

“Stop being stupid, Garan,” she chided. “It was an accident.” 

Garan sighed, rubbing his arm. “I was only joking. I’ll help you get your things ready, Evie. It’s a long way to Ostwick.”

“I’m going with you to the Hinterlands,” Evie said. 

“What?!” Cullen and Garan exclaimed. 

“You are not!” Garan snapped. 

“The information you said--” Cullen began. 

“Has already been passed on to Rylen,” Evie replied cooly. 

“Oh,” Cullen paused. “Then that’s alright, then.”

“It is not alright!” Garan cut in, rising from his seat. “What information is this, Commander?”

“Intelligence on the Hinterlands and Templar movements,” Cullen replied. Garan’s glare would have seared the snow. “We needed that information, and all she wanted to do was talk to you. It was a fair request.” He held up a hand as Garan opened his mouth. “And, I don’t think it is a bad idea for you to have an extra sword beside you in the Hinterlands. She does want to help the Inquisition.” 

Garan turned to glare at her. Evelyn did not even look at him, wrapping herself in that annoying, arrogant calm of hers. “Evie, you are going home!” 

“You can’t even block a punch, Garan,” she replied evenly. “And I have been through the Hinterlands on my way over here. It is nothing like the Circle. And I am not going to leave you out in a warzone. What would Mother say?”

“I am your older brother--”

“Whom I’ve watched over in the Circle as a Templar all these years,” she replied calmly. 

“That’s-- Thank you, but this is too dangerous!”

She shrugged and crossed her arms loftily. Then, with eyes twinkling, she stuck her tongue out at him. 

Garan sputtered. “Argh you make me so-- so livid!”

“You’re the one who did something so unbelievably stupid in a time of such fear and suspicion of mages that he was put on the Tranquility list. You wouldn’t even be able to feel anything at all, had I not gotten you off it and sent to the Conclave instead.”

Garan gaped at her, his eyes widening slowly. “I was…” A chill ran through him and the words died in his throat. 

Evie sighed. “Goodnight, Garan,” she said. “We’ll ride out tomorrow.” She held out the handkerchief to Cullen. 

“Keep it,” Cullen said. “I have several.”

Garan could not help but see the red rise in Evie’s cheeks as she muttered her thanks. He crossed his arms, wearying of the argument. And his jaw was hurting the more he spoke. She turned from the two of them and headed to the barracks, glancing over her shoulder at Garan and Cullen. Or was it just Cullen she was looking at? Garan cast Cullen a sidelong look. “You’re smiling,” Garan said. 

Cullen frowned immediately. “It’s been known to happen,” he muttered and went to pick up his cup. 

“Maker preserve me, Cullen, you were supposed to help me make her go home!” Garan said. He rubbed his jaw. “This is going to sting for days.”

Cullen sighed. “I knew she was angry, I did not expect the punch,” he said, dusting the snow from his cup and refilling it with tea from the kettle. 

“Yeah, you and me both,” Garan grumbled, though he sounded a little distant. 

“Just let her be, Herald,” Cullen said, as he drew another cup that was set by the firepit. He filled that and handed it to Garan. “She’s worried about you, that’s all.”

Garan took the cup and sat down on the crate, his eyes staring into the flames. Cullen glanced at him and fell quiet, leaving Garan to his thoughts. He picked up the book from the snow and brushed it clean. He started to flip to his page. “What are you reading?” Garan suddenly asked. 

“A Chevalier treatise on defence methods,” Cullen replied. 

“That sounds, um, very exciting.”

“It’s not,” Cullen chuckled. “But, it helps. I could teach it to you if you wish.”

Garan hummed in reply, frowning slightly. “Maybe next time.” He sipped his tea. “So, I had no idea you Templars had Tranquility lists,” he said then. 

Cullen shut the book and drew a breath. “We do,” he replied, setting the book aside. 

“How does one get a name off the list?”

Cullen frowned in thought. “The Knight Captains, Knight Commander and First Enchanter usually come together to reach a consensus.”

“Usually?”

“It-- sometimes protocols are breached.”

“Protocols?”

Cullen drew a breath. “Sometimes, we do not consult the First Enchanter.”

“You Templars just mark us and we’re suddenly made Tranquil?”

Cullen felt Garan’s green eyes bore into him. “If the mage is seen as an imminent danger to innocent people, then yes,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “And I am no longer a Templar, Herald.”

“Did you?” Garan asked. “Did you make mages Tranquil just because their name was on a list?”

Cullen paused, firelight dancing in his honeyed eyes. “I have.” His voice was heavy, weary. “If they were a threat, they went on the list. And back then… there were many threats.”

“What if they were innocent?” Garan breathed. “Did you investigate? In Kirkwall, I mean.”

“We do. But it takes precious little to paint a mage as a threat, Garan. There were times when we were quick to judge.”

The silence from Garan was heavy. Cullen kept his eyes lowered to the fire. “To get a name off a list,” Cullen went on, “she would probably have to get the approval of a Knight Captain or the Knight Commander. She said she vouched for you, that might have been it.” Cullen cleared his throat. 

“Had she not done so, I would have been…” Garan’s voice trailed off. He frowned. “It is wrong the way you Templars treat us.”

Cullen looked up at him. “Yes,” he said. “It is. Which is why the Inquisition can make all the difference. Templars were originally part of the first Inquisition. We were the hands that brought peace to Thedas. But we changed. We lost sight of our duty. Now, the Inquisition has a chance to change all that, to do the good it was created to do!” Cullen realized the fire in his voice and chuckled, sounding a little rueful. “Well, that’s the plan. We can’t do it without you, however.”

Garan frowned and ran his hand through his hair with an uncertain sigh. “Maker…”

“Whatever you or I were before, or might have been, should not stop us from doing what we must now do,” Cullen said firmly. “I-- We have to believe that, Garan. We’re on a new path. We have to look ahead. We have to make it  _ right _ .”

“Oh, sure,” Garan laughed. “That’s easy. Just save the world, no pressure!”

Cullen smiled slightly. “Aren’t you the Herald of Andraste?”

“Don’t even start, Cullen.”

“Then we should probably just step up, shouldn’t we?”

Garan paused. He rubbed the back of his neck as his cheeks tinged. “I am whining, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t say that but, yes. Yes, you are.”

Garan groaned. “Fine, I’ll stop. We have work to do in the morning, and apparently, sister dear is coming with me so Maker knows what that will be like.”

“You might find it a comfort. And her sword a boon.”

“Really? You think so?”

“After hearing her reports of the Hinterlands, yes. I do.”


	3. Lighting the Pyre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> Art by Tamarandom 

The noise in the air was unbearable, a constant droning roar of battle that washed against the ear like the waves upon the shore. It rose from the Hinterlands Crossroads right up  to the Inquisition forward camp upon the hill above the tiny settlement. Garan felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle at the sounds as he tried to listen to Harding’s briefing. Behind him, Varric and Cassandra were dismounting their horses, their weapons glinting in the sunlight.

Solas stood at the side of the knoll that dropped off sharply to overlook the crossroads below. A footstep on the soft grass made the elf turn. Evelyn walked up to him, joining him at the lookout. She crossed her arms, light dancing on the slightly scuffed armor she wore. Across her back was a blade almost as tall as she was. “Should you not be attending the briefing?” Solas asked, his delicate fingers wrapping around his staff as he leaned on it.

“Shouldn’t you?” Evelyn asked.

“There is little new to learn. The flow of chaos in a leaderless battle is predictable. The innocent die and fools without direction attack any who cross their paths.”

“Truly,” Evelyn frowned. “You seem to know much about battle for an apostate.”

“I have seen much of such sad occurrences in the Fade as I dreamed,” Solas replied somberly. “No doubt this place will carry such memories too, should I lay my head here.”

“You are gifted.”

“A welcome sentiment, coming from a Templar.”

Evelyn chuckled slightly. “I like to surprise people. And today, I suspect will be full of surprises.” She glanced over her shoulder at Garan. “And not all of them pleasant.”

Solas followed her gaze. “He will endure, Ser Knight,” he assured her. “He must.”

“Between the demons and the Templars and Mages in the Hinterlands, I hope he does.”

Garan turned to them and waved them over. “We need to find a Mother Giselle,” Garan said to them as they approached. “And a horsemaster named Dennet.”

Evelyn froze. “With Giselle at the Crossroads, that shouldn’t be too hard,” Cassandra said.

“Provided the fighting has not reached the Crossroads,” Solas added.

“Don’t worry, Chuckles,” Varric said. “Bianca’s itching to be out in the sun.” He glanced at Evelyn. “You alright, Fiesty?”

Evelyn blinked. “Fiesty?”

“I was going to go for Giant,” Varric said, rubbing his stubbly chin. “Not sure, I’ve got to get to know you better.”

“We should get moving,” Cassandra cut in. “The longer we tarry, the more sunlight we lose.”

“We should be able to pop over to the Horsemaster’s before sunset,” Garan said.

“I’m not sure,” Evelyn replied. “It’s a long way through a battlefield. The way is also blocked by Templars.”

Garan sighed. “Inconvenient,” he noted.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Evelyn muttered.

“You’ve been through there?”

“On my way to Haven, yes. I had to skirt Redcliffe and the pass through the Witchwood was blocked.”

Garan frowned. “Was there a lot of fighting?”

Evelyn nodded.

Garan drew a deep breath and sighed. “Horses?”

“No,” Cassandra replied immediately.

“Why?”

“They have bows and spells. Best not to make ourselves targets, Herald,” Varric explained.

“Oh, right,” Garan muttered distantly. They began to descend the hill from the camp. The hills rose around them, wreathed in green grass and adorned with the last flowers of summer. Evelyn had admired the beauty as she came through here, but she knew this last summer’s veil was stained with blood. She looked up at the top of a hill overlooking the valley and saw telltale shapes.

“Those are weird trees,” Garan said beside her.

“Hm?”

He pointed up at the hilltop where Evelyn had been looking.

“They are not trees,” Cassandra replied, her voice tight.

“They look like--” Garan’s voice trailed off and he squinted harder.

“They are people,” Evelyn replied. “On stakes.”

The silence that descended was heavy. Garan looked at her, his face a little pale. “Templars or Mages?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Evelyn replied, glancing away. There were more than Templars and Mages who were affected by the battle, but she hadn’t the heart to tell Garan.

“We should bury them,” Garan insisted.

“Not now, too risky, Herald,” Varric said placatingly. “You’d lose more men getting up there. And who’s going to bury them?”

“Yes but--”

“Just let their neighbours bury them,” Evelyn sighed in exasperation. “If they are still alive.”

“Neighbours?” Garan gaped at her. “You mean those are not even Templars? Or Mages?”

“I don’t know,” Evelyn looked away.

“How can you not know?” Garan sputtered. “I mean, if they’re just regular people - innocents. The Templars go too far in this war!”

Evelyn’s jaw clenched.

“This isn’t a war,” Solas said firmly.

“Agreed,” Cassandra added. “This is a massacre.”

“I fail to see the difference,” Garan replied, his cheeks mottling.

“Wars have rules,” Cassandra explained. “No hurting civilians, rules against pillage and plunder, officers to enforce those rules. If those are indeed farmers, then this is no war.”

Garan opened his mouth to retort, but Cassandra held her hand up to silence him. “This is not the place to discuss this. The fighting is drawing nearer. You can--”

They rounded a corner and froze.

The spire glittered before them, a tower of ice rising out of the earth and blocking the path.Cold flowed from its crystalline surface, but the mist and ice did nothing to hide the faces of the people trapped within the ice. Frozen in a terrifying frieze were a mage and two templars, the mage’s body speared by a sword, the blood a beautiful crimson bloom within the ice. The faces of the templars were bound in a rictus of rage and pain the ice pulling back their lips and eyelids. Varric gave a low whistle. “This is bad,” he muttered.

Evelyn saw the color draining from Garan’s face as one of the templar’s eyes turned slowly to look at them, his gaze pleading… then it rolled back in his head. She grabbed his arm and pulled him past the spire of ice and away from the sight of the frozen dead. “This is--”  Garan croaked.

“Stop it!” Evelyn said sternly, standing in front of him and holding his arms.

Garan turned to look over his shoulder.

“Garan!” Evelyn shouted. He turned back to her, staring goggle-eyed. “Keep it together!” she snapped.

“But they’re dead!”

“And we can’t bring them back!” Her blue eyes locked with his green. “So you just-- you just have to stay calm, alright? Keep it together. What would everyone think seeing the Herald of Andraste freaking out.”

He stared at her for a moment, then his frown drew across his face like a cloud across the sun. “This is wrong,” he breathed.

“Then fix it,” Evie said firmly. “You can do it, Garan. One battle at a time.”

He nodded slowly. “One at a time.”

She pats his arm. “Now we should hurry. If they are fighting this close to the Crossroads…”

“Come on,” Garan said, straightening up. Evelyn smiled slightly at the look in his eyes. He walked past her and she moved to follow him, her smile fading. Evelyn looked over her shoulder at the templar frozen in the ice. She recognized him… or she thought she did. It was hard to tell with his face contorted like that. She-- The Templars was part of the problem. Perhaps Cullen’s path was the right one.

The Crossroads was not a happy place. The area was mostly empty, devoid of villagers, The four village huts were boarded up and the few villagers who were out were pouring water from a fetid pond into the thatch of their roofs and wooden walls. Evelyn saw the stark fear in their eyes as Garan’s war-like party descended from the hills. The sight Evelyn in her Templar armor, Cassandra with her sword and shield, Varric with his bow, and Solas and Garan bearing their staves without qualms did not put the villagers at ease. The villagers stopped, dropped their buckets and ran into their huts, slamming the doors behind them.

“That was… understandable,” Varric muttered. “We don’t exactly look like the Punch and Judy show came to town.” The largest hut was set on a terrace carved out of the hill.

“It isn’t as if the water will even help with magefire,” Garan said.

“But Templars do use flaming arrows,” Cassandra pointed out.

Garan sighed in exasperation but said nothing more. Evelyn glanced at her brother, who did not meet her eyes. He looked up instead to the form of a Chantry mother, walking amongst the injured on cots laid outside a house upon a terrace cut from the hill. Cassandra suddenly stopped and drew her sword, the blade hissing as it emerged from its sheath. “Stand ready!” she shouted. Shouts rang out from the other side of the village.

Evelyn did not need telling twice, she drew her blade. From over the crest of a hillock, she saw the flashing of blades emerge as sellswords screamed their foolish charge. Behind them came mages, their staves beginning to glow as Evelyn felt the mana building in the air. “Stop!” Garan shouted at the mages as they charged. “Stop, you don’t have to fight us!”

He hadn’t drawn his staff. Evelyn hesitated, her sword held low. “Garan!” she called urgently. The sellswords were nearing them, she could see the whites in their eyes.

Garan held his hands up. “Please stop, brothers!” he shouted.

The whole party froze, watching him, disbelief clearly written on Cassandra’s face.

“They are not going to listen to us Freckles,” Varric said urgently, holding Bianca in his arms, cocked and ready to fire. “You have to fight.”

“They’re mages!” Garan cried.

“They are going to kill us, Herald,” Solas pointed out, his voice tight as he held his staff, already thrumming with magic.

“They have to listen,” Garan grated.

Evelyn could see the snarl of a sellsword as he raised his blade, running right for Garan. The sword rang against steel as Evelyn blocked the strike. The sellsword’s forehead sprouted with a bloody spray and the fletching of a bolt. Garan stared in horror as the man fell to his knees, eyes rolling back in his head.

Garan let out a quivering breath. Then the first spells were fired overhead, aimed straight to the roof of the makeshift infirmary. A bolt of frost fired from Solas’s staff, ice crackling over the thatching as the firebolts hit. The Chantry mother shielded one of the cots with her body, instead of fleeing.

Garan grit his teeth, a snarl coming to his lips as he drew his staff at last. Evelyn felt the exultation bloom in her as her brother charged over the corpse of the sellsword to the attacking mages and the whole party was set loose.

Evelyn charged into the fray, her blade held low. The spells were now being shifted towards them. Around her, she felt Solas’s barrier flow over her and resisted the urge to instantly purge the mana on her body. She grit her teeth and met blades with a sellsword, the man’s rusting weapon cracking under hers. She elbowed him in the face, her armour spattered with blood from his nose. Overhead, spells flew. Cassandra attacked beside her, deflecting the spells fired at her with her shield. With a snarl, she drew close to a mage, barging into his defences. The man raised a staff to futilely block her attack, but her blow was swift, countering his weak defence with a slight tap of her shield. She tipped the staff out of the way only a tiny bit but it was all she needed. His head rolled with a spray of blood. But Evelyn could see that was unnecessary. The head came to a stop in the dirt, a bolt in its temple. “Varric!” Cassandra shouted.

Varric only shrugged with an insufferable smirk.

Evelyn felt a tingle of excitement at the sight of Cassandra fighting. She was the Hero of Orlais, and her skill was unmatched. Another mage on the hill raised his staff and Evelyn felt the manna sparking through the air. She braced, feeling her blood beginning to pulse with the thrumming power of lyrium. Lightning flashed through the air, striking her armor, but her body glimmered blue as she cloaked herself in lyrium. She ran for the last mage as he gathered energy for another spell. Her blade flashed in the sunlight as the mage turned towards her.

She felt the jolting tingles of lightning on her armor and pulled the lyrium from her blood once more. She growled as the spell fired, faster than she could deflect it. She froze as lightning lanced through her body, her muscles a symphony of agony as they seized up. She couldn’t even scream, lights flashing in her eyes. Then it vanished as a scream filled the air. The spell fell from her body, the lightning replaced with a searing heat. Evelyn staggered back from the man as he stood bound, mana sparking over his body in a green barrier that flickered with fire, green against flames. Her eyes widened then, and the green light faded and fell, and the man erupted in blazing spire.

She gasped and stepped back, shielding her face from the fire that burned so hot the air wavered. The mage screamed, gripping himself and writhing in the flames. Evelyn felt her heart wrench. She raised her blade and plunged it into the mage’s blazing chest. The screams came to a merciful end, though the body still burned. She pulled her blade out, the smell of searing flesh acrid in her nose. As the mage’s burning body fell, she turned to see Garan, his staff stretched out towards the mage, its end still flaring with fire. His eyes were stark wide, his lips pulled back into a snarl. But the look of rage faded before the corpse even hit the ground, a mask of horror shrouding his face.

Evelyn gasped, seeing the glint of metal coming up the path from the other side of the crossroads.  
  
“Templars coming!” Solas shouted.   
  
She turned and charged, even as Garan tore his eyes from the burning corpse to face the new threat. “Will they listen?” he croaked as she ran past.

“No,” she replied, her voice tinged with regret. “Kill them all.”

 

+++++

 

It was night. The stars overhead glittered in the dark swathe of sky, beguilingly peaceful. At the crossroads, the corpses were being burned - templar and mage alike in the same pyre. Mother Giselle had quietly suggested it, and the villagers had obeyed. Ostensibly, the pyre was a symbol of the the villagers acting as the hand of the Maker in delivering his final mercy. Solas had a far more cynical opinion, that the villagers suffered enough death without a plague spreading from the unburned dead littering the crossroads. Garan felt a part of himself crumble at the thought. Solas was probably right, but Garan did not want to partake of the last rites. As Mother Giselle sang her chant, Garan retreated to the infirmary, hoping to make himself useful. He was no healing mage, but he could close a wound if needed.   
  
In the darkness, illuminated by the pyre that burned in the middle of the crossroads, Garan walked among the injured. “ _The night is long, and the path is dark,_ ” Mother Giselle’s voice rose from the pyre-side.

Garan grit his teeth and hurried to the back of the hut where more injured lay. He could not hear the chant here, could not see the flames of the pyre. Though the image of flames still rose in his mind - flames and screams and a face frozen in a rictus of agony as he burned alive, the hot taste of… exaltation in Garan’s mouth that fueled the magefire. His footsteps stilled. He rubbed his arm, feeling his skin crawl from the blood that covered his armor and the horrific thoughts in his mind. Maker, what had he done…  
  
A hoarse cough shook him from his thoughts. Garan looked down at an Inquisition soldier covered with a filthy blanket as he lay on the ground at Garan’s feet. “Water,” the soldier croaked. Water, the man needed water. Garan could have thanked the soldier for giving his mind something to do. He looked around and found a jug on a table surrounded by rusty, battered field cups. He grabbed one and filled it with cloudy well water. Then he knelt by the soldier and brought the cup to the man’s lips. The man drank, water streaming down his chin. He coughed again then and curled up, clutching his stomach. “Maker, help me…”

Garan swallowed and set the cup down, his face pale in the firelight. “Let me help,” he said. He reached out to pull the blanket back from the soldier’s unresisting hands, and then turned away, averting his eyes from the mess of blood and bandages that was the soldier’s gut. The smell of blood and puss that rose from the injuries was nearly as stomach-churning as the sight of it. Garan grit his teeth. “This will sting a bit,” Garan said softly. “Just… relax. I should be able to take some of the pain away.”

The soldier whimpered as Garan held his hand out over the wound. The green healing light began to shine, Garan pouring his will into the spell. His eyes slowly began to close as he tried to focus on the healing - but his hand was swatted away with a terrified cry. Garan stared as the soldier glared at him, fear in his eyes. “Get away!” the soldier cried. “Don’t touch me, mage!”

Garan stared, stricken. “I just - I just want to help!”

“Help?”

The venom in the soldier’s voice cut Garan to the core.

“Did you help when your people did this to me?”

Garan looked at him helplessly. “I--” he faltered, burning in the accusing gaze of the soldier, a pyre for his very own…  
  
“Hush child,” a gentle voice soothed. Garan looked up into the face of the Mother as she stood behind him.   
  
“Don’t let him touch me, Mother!” the soldier growled. “His magic is--”

“Turned to noble purpose,” she finished as she knelt down in the dirt by the soldier and calmly taking his hand. “There are mages here now who can heal your wounds. And their magic is no more evil than your blade.”

“But--” the soldier began.   
  
“Lie still, dear child. I am here, and so is the Maker. Allow him to ease your suffering.”

Garan looked at her helplessly as she cradled the soldier’s head in her lap and nodded at Garan. With his mouth dry and his mind reeling, Garan turned his attention to the spell once more, letting the mana flow through his body as his mind moulded the spell. Healing, calm, peace… that was what the spell required. It faltered, the light fading from his hand. He grit his teeth and shook his head. Focus. Peace. He would fix this. This was all wrong. He needed  - everyone here needed peace. The spell held steady this time, and the magic flowed into the wound.

But the magic did not last long. A vision of fire rose treacherously in his mind, and Garan shut his hands, pulling the spell away. “There, child,” said the Mother as she soothed the soldier. “It is done, you can sleep better now.”

The soldier avoided Garan’s eyes as he knelt there helplessly, his hand still raised but no longer aglow. The Mother pulled a blanket over the soldier and set his head down to rest once more. Then, with a gentle nod of her head, she gestured for Garan to follow her.

Garan turned from the soldier and stood up, his feet crunching the gravel as he walked away from the man, balling his hands into fists. He followed the Mother away from the injured as she walked to the edge of the light on the terrace. She stood with her hands before her, a soothing spring of calm that Garan sorely needed. “You’re-- Mother Giselle?” Garan began, at a loss for where to start.

“I am,” she replied. “And you must be the one they call the Herald of Andraste.”

He glanced away. “Whether I like it or not, apparently,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his hand.

She chuckled. “We seldom get a choice in our fate, I am sad to say.”

He frowned. “I am not the Herald of Andraste,” he insisted.

“And yet, here you are,” she replied with that insufferable calm. Garan looked down and realized he was rubbing at the mark. He parted his hands. “I do not pretend to know the Maker’s will for any of us,” Mother Giselle went on. “But I did not ask you here to debate with me.”

“You asked me here because you said you could help us. Can you?”

“Oh, yes. I know of the Chantry’s denouncement. And I am familiar with those behind it. I will not lie to you, some are simply grandstanding, hoping to become the new Divine. Some are simply terrified.” She shook her head sadly. “So many good people, senselessly taken from us.”

Fire and screams… Garan shook his head. “Then help us. We want to fix this-- this mess, somehow. The Chantry should be here! With the people!” There was fire in his voice, a heat that Garan did not understand. “The Templars should be guarding the innocents, the mages should be healing! Not-- not this!” He waved his hand to the charred roof thatch, the light of the pyre illuminating his face. He sighed in exasperation and lowered his hand. He met her eyes. “But here you are, all alone.” He frowned. “Why?”

“With no Divine, we are each left to our own conscience,” she replied. “And mine demands that I stay here, to help those I can. These are the people the Maker has asked me to shepherd. I could not abandon them to their fates.”

“But you could have died… The templars or the mages might have killed you.”

“The might have,” she said. “But you came, did you not? You and your Inquisition have saved us.”

Garan folded his arms. “Still,” he muttered. “That was…” His voice trailed off. What did he think of her actions? Foolish? Chantry mothers were all Chant-spewing fops in funny hats in the Circle. They didn’t care to ease the mages’ suffering, only to tell them how evil mages were. _Magic turned to noble purpose…_ Garan realised his anger was foolish. He looked up at Mother Giselle. “That was noble of you,” he finished.

She only smiled. “It is hard to put aside old feelings, is it not?” she asked gently. Garan’s jaw jutted with a guilty pout as he averted his eyes. “That was how the poor soldier felt. But your healing has changed him, convinced him that you are no demon. Imagine how my counterparts feel in Val Royeaux. It is just as difficult, and frightening, for them as it is for you.”

Garan sighed in resignation. “It’s no excuse,” he said.

“They did not have a gentle voice to guide them, and they yearn for it. The Maker chooses the least likely of us as his mouthpiece, in His wisdom. And he speaks to us from the shadows, a whisper in the darkness.”

“Our conscience.”

“Yes. And mine tells me this: Go to them. Convince the remaining clerics as you convinced that soldier.”

Garan blinked. “Wait, what? You want me to go to them?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if you know this but they want to _kill_ me, Mother Giselle! And you’re suggesting I just walk up to them? Hello, Herald of Andraste, nice to meet you?”

“They have heard only frightful things of you, Herald. Give them something else to believe.”

“You mean, appeal to them?”

“If I thought you were incapable, I would not have suggested it,” she smiled.

“I’m not saying my winning smile and charming good looks will not get their attention,” he said flippantly, “but will they even listen to me?”

Mother Giselle laughed, a strange and uplifting sound against the crackling of the pyre’s flames. “Let me put it this way, Herald,” she went on. “You need not convince them all, you merely need some of them to doubt. Their power is in their unified voice. Take that from them and you will receive the time you need.”

Garan sighed and looked around at the village, finally turning his gaze to the pyre. “What of the people here? The Inquisition is here but with the fighting, I don’t know how long you or the others can hold out.”

“We must put our faith in the Maker.”

“Well, he’s doing a lousy job of things then,” Garan crossed his arms.

“What does his Herald suggest?”

“I cannot stop a war!”

She smiled warmly at him. “No one should have survived the explosion at the Conclave,” she said calmly. “And yet, here you are. Have faith - if not in the Maker, then in yourself.”

Garan was silent. “I will go to Haven,” she went on, “And give Sister Leliana the contacts of those who would be amenable to a gathering.”

“What of the people here?” Garan asked.

“I cannot stop a war,” she smiled.

“What? You just said have faith in the Maker and stuff!”

“I do have faith.” Her smile widened. “In you.”

Garan glared at her. “That’s… bizarrely manipulative from you, Mother,” he grumbled.

“I have no sword to carry, no spell to weave, no voice to summon armies or knives from the shadows,” she said. “All I have is faith, and I am careful where I put it. I honestly don’t know if you were touched by fate or sent to help us but… I hope. Hope is what we need now. The people will listen to your rallying call as they will listen to no other. Though you have yet to realize it, the Inquisition can become a force that will deliver us, or destroy us. In the meantime, I will help to arrange the gathering. It is not much, but I will do whatever I can. That is all we can do, no?”

Garan said nothing, the weight of her words heavy on his shoulders. She bade him a quiet goodnight and left him there, standing at the edge of the light, unsure, uncertain, alone. 

 

++++

  
  
The Inquisition camp was quiet, with tents pitched around a central fire. Beside them was a pond that sparkled endlessly with the waterfall plunging from a lake plateau above. Once, the spring lake provided water for the people of the Crossroads. Now, Garan learned that the water had been poisoned with dead thrown into the lake. Still, it was beautiful and clean enough to bathe in, which he did, scrubbing until his skin was red and raw. He still felt dirty, as if the blood had seeped into his body. Which was daft…

Pulling on his clothes at last, he headed to the fireplace. Evie sat on a log by the flames, cleaning her blade. Garan tried not to look at the dark clumps she was scraping off her sword. “Hard day today,” she said as he joined her.

Garan merely grunted, picking up a stick and poking at the fire.

Evelyn lowered her eyes, holding the blade up as the fire danced upon its polished surface. He watched her pick up a whetstone and start to sharpen the edge, the scraping of stone on steel like the steely hiss of a snake. Garan listened to it as she sat calm by the fire. The slow drawing of stone on steel grating his ears. Still, she said nothing. He ran his hand through his hair. “Argh, stop!” he cried.

She glanced at him, her whetstone stilling on the blade. She set it down and leaned the sword against the log she sat on.

He glared at her as she watched him expectantly. “You’re so calm about all this!” he blurted.

She raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“You killed people!”

“So did you.”

Garan grit his teeth. “Not on- on purpose!”

“You defended yourself,” she said. “And helped me. Why should I not be calm?”

“You killed Templars!”

“They were coming to kill me first.”

Garan glared. “You’re being insufferable.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. It grated on Garan’s nerves so much. “I can’t help it, Garan. Things were different for you in the circle. I know it’s the first time you’ve killed anyone but--”

“Stop being so blase about it!” Garan shouted, springing to his feet.

Evelyn looked up at him. “You know it’s true,” she said. “I’m sorry, Garan but you can’t keep every kill like, well…” She looked uncomfortable. “Like it matters!”

He stared at her, aghast. “Do you know what you’re saying?” he breathed. “He was a mage! I burned him alive!”

“You set two other men on fire too,” she pointed out. “They were Templars. Does that not matter?”

“It doesn’t matter to you!” Garan shouted.

“Of course it matters!” Evelyn raised her voice in return. “I knew those men! But they had to die or they would have killed me first! Then probably run our arse through as well!”

“You can’t just kill people like this!”

“You have to! Grow up, Garan! This isn’t the Circle!

“This is insane!” he growled. “There has to be another way!”

“What, magic them into peace? Magic them to stop?” She scoffed. “Please, spare me. And stop acting like you’re the only one hurting here.”

“Stop acting like you don’t care then - Mother never raised you like this!”

“Mother never raised us!” Her voice rang out over the camp. “She didn’t raise either of us! You were taken at thirteen! I left to be a Templar at thirteen. What did she have to do with either of us?”

“We’re supposed to help people!”

“Yeah? Well, sometimes they are best helped with a sword in the chest, Garan! That’s just the way it is!” She turned away from him and picked up her sword and whetstone, sharpening the blade aggressively. Garan growled and walked away from her, his hands balled as he left the firelight. His face was burning hot and he needed to cool off. He stormed past the sentry and headed out into the cool night away from the fire.

Crickets sang around him as he stood in the moonlight, his nostrils flaring as he tried to wind his temper down. Evelyn’s words felt monstrously cold to him. How could she be so blase about killing people? A cool breeze rustled the bushes and the trees, soothing his burning cheeks. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He had to get a grip.

Then something hit him on the neck.

“Maker!” Garan hissed, staring around him. He saw no one. He frowned and looked down at his feet. Something small glowed gently on the ground. He bent to pick it up and felt the flow of mana over the tiny pebble. Around it was a scrap of thin parchment. He opened it and read it. His brow furrowed. Perhaps this was the way forward. There had to be a way to broker peace.

He tucked the parchment into his coat pocket and looked down at the glowing stone. Then he pulled his arm back and flung it into the trees, where no one would be able to find it.


End file.
